


And Thus, His Eyes Opened

by GothicSeer



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Archivist Jonathan Sims, Body Horror, Character Study, Gen, He/they Jon rights!, Scopophobia, Start of S4 Jon, Surreal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:42:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23979184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GothicSeer/pseuds/GothicSeer
Summary: The Archivist's body stirs in its coma, his mind unaware, yet their body painfully so. It is a chrysalis, one of the many it has taken the form of, and it is beginning to shudder, the new yet so ancient, the changed yet so similar being within it ready to emerge. And thus, it does.
Kudos: 37





	And Thus, His Eyes Opened

The call of a drum split the air like a low hum; it cut through the Archivist's heart, yet brought forth the breath of a new heir. Of a war, it drew but did not, of a calling it was, but was not.

There lay the Archivist, mind far lost, yet one in the same as it always had been, birthed anew. His chest rose and fell, their body merely still- or was it not? A finger twitched, a pockmarked wrist shuddered, discoloured flesh shifting at every slight movement like a doll pulled with woven strings. The Archivist, so unaware, conscious captured by the focus of another scene, one which he knew, but did not.

Like a chrysalis, his body simply sat on the hospital bed, yet like one as well, he was but a stranger to his new flesh. He knew it... he knew it? Within him, yet buried deeply, his knowledge dwelled so sealed behind a door of worn wood, yet was his self or emotions much different? One door to another, they led him further and further, through darkness, through an extensive cluttered emptiness that threatened to choke him. But he was unaware of this, or was he? Would he listen, if he was told, or would he only realize with himself, as himself, alone with himself? Through denial, a guidance with a spark that was naught, it threatened to burst. He knew.

And his body shifted further, his body was not but a chrysalis, yes, that was certain, such a specific truth, but this only remained true to his potential, to his self. His body, conversely, was a hive. Truthfully, very much alive, with or without his mind's woven threads to push and pull it to and fro, to open his mouth in an utterance, a certain bellow.

And there, to the eyes of others, to a camera, to one who watched and waited from bars so cold, his eyes opened. But they were not his eyes, yet they were always his eyes. The eyes of another, the eyes of himself, by choice, by need, by curiosity, by compulsion. By everything in between the subconscious and conscious, they drew forth.

His body twitched, discoloured flesh writhing with life beneath its surface, every pockmark's little shape, every cut's length, even at the cost of splitting their neck, it writhed. It was not painful, no, but it was, somewhere else. The doors within the Archivist shuddered, his mind drawing closer yet away, a cowardly move, yet one by a person who could only drive himself further. A choice was a choice, but one he did not truly know he was making.

And thus, every scar began to push outwards, no matter how small, no matter how large, they bulged and splintered at their centres, the crease bursting through the flesh with every motion, one by one at first, then many more all at once.

Slowly, yet not so, the Archivist's eyes began to lift their heavy lids from few centuries' long rest, eyelids pulling backwards to reveal frantically searching pupils, iris, dancing upon the rubbery muscle. They gazed upon the room, those within it; they did not notice, not physically, of course, but they noticed it so well with every subtly of the room falling into the Archivist's stare, now ceaselessly watching all from the slumbering chrysalis of a consciousness that had soon to awake. Only few hours it would be, until one who knew would enter, another thing of prey to awaken the unwilling, yet so willing apostle. 

Though for the time being, so it was set, every eye, scars no longer truly dotting and splattering and covering and mutilating and preparing the flesh of the Archivist, but eyes, so many, would be to be the Archivist, to exist within him, as him, of him. They were of him as much as he, then, was of them. That much was obvious to any onlooker that would so be greeted by a gaze back, were they one and the same, or was one a parasite of another, they would have to wonder. But truthfully, it did not matter. The eyes watched. The Archivist watched. And in sync together, their eyes drunk in every story, every detail, every new trauma that the focused world could draw forth.


End file.
